


The Italian Vice

by Tonica



Category: Desperate Romantics
Genre: Art, Gay, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonica/pseuds/Tonica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rossetti is desperate for money and sponsorship. He visits Ruskin to sell his latest work. Ruskin makes him another offer, one that Rossetti resents, but is unable to refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Italian Vice

Rossetti reached for the wine bottle but noticed something wrong and took a closer look. It was empty. He glanced around the cluttered room and found no more wine anywhere. The cheese and bread were also finished. He was still both hungry and thirsty. At the moment, he was between projects and his mind didn't keep his body in a vice and consequently, he was more aware of its needs. 

He didn't need to look around the room for money, because he already knew he was out of it. As an artist, he deplored such bourgeousie considerations, but sadly, his body was weak and needed its creature comforts. His mind got to work on finding a source of income. He already knew that no one would lend him any more money. That had already been tried and brought to the end of its usefulness. No one was foolish enough to throw good money after bad.

John Ruskin – that man had more than his fair share of pecuniary assets. Couldn't he device a way of making Ruskin part with some of his wealth? Wasn't it in fact Ruskin's moral duty to finance the arts? That was what he claimed to do, after all. To sponsor the arts. 

Rossetti pondered his last project. It was finished and he had no buyer for it. He could take it to Ruskin and ask him to consider it. It was only about two fifty in the afternoon, so Rossetti sprang up, grabbed his canvas and ran out, not even stopping to don his coat. 

He ran all the way to Ruskin's house, not having enough even of petty cash to pay a driver. It was raining slightly and by the time he stood outside the older man's house, his shirt stuck to his skin in an unpleasant way, but he shook the excess damp out of his hair and decided to ignore his discomfort. If Ruskin was in -

He knocked on the door and waited. After a few minutes, a very condescending servant opened the door a fraction. 

”This is not the kitchen entrance -”

”I am Rossetti, here to speak to your master on important business.”

The servant wrinkled his nose, then considered the suggestion. Eventually, he reluctantly let Rossetti in. 

”Wait here.”

The servant left Rossetti standing in the hallway, instead of showing him into a sitting room. Even Rossetti recognized that as a snub, but was forced to ignore it, no matter how much he despised servants and other minions of the establishment. 

Eventually, Ruskin came down the stairs, contemplated Rossetti's appearance in silence, then gestured towards a door at the end of the hallway.

His hopes awakened, Rossetti eagerly followed the older man into a room that was not very large, but the light was good, and there was even an easel with a canvas on it. The image depicted, in amateurish lines, the beginning of a sketch of a scantily dressed female child. Rossetti recognized Ruskin's protegee. He still recalled the talk that had accompanied the girl's appearance at Ruskin's side. With an effort he put the unpleasant idea out of his mind. He wanted Ruskin to part with his money, not appear to be judging him for his potential perversions.

”Sir – I was wondering if you might like to buy my painting.”

Ruskin appeared to be deep in thought, but shook himself out of it and nodded inquiringly towards the canvas. 

Rossetti brandished it dramatically, over by the window, to show it off to its best advantage.

”Well?”

Ruskin's face betrayed nothing but polite interest, then his gaze strayed from the canvas to the artist. He perused the wet hair, the damp shirt that clung to the artist's body - 

”I have a suggestion for you, mr Rossetti. Lately, I have tried my hand at painting.”

”So I see. Impressive.”

Rossetti was thinking more about the audacity of this wealthy amateur, daring to compare himself to a real artist, rather than actually commenting on the quality of the sketch.

”I would like to paint you. There is an impressive brutishness about your appearance that it would interest me to paint. Well? I will pay you handsomely for your time.”

Rossetti stared in surprise at Ruskin. This time the man had succeeded in astonishing him. His first impulse was to reject the offer. He was an artist, not a model. In addition, deep down, he had a feeling he ought to be offended by being referred to as 'brutish'. However, in the end, he knew he couldn't afford to be proud. At least until he found out what Ruskin meant by 'paying handsomely'. 

”How much?”

The sum really was generous. He realized that he couldn't afford to turn it down. This was his chance. If Ruskin kept this up for long, it could easily finance Rossetti's own work for months, maybe almost a year. 

”Done.”

”Can we begin today? This afternoon?”

Rossetti considered. Why not? No time like the present. He assumed he would be paid instantly. Perhaps even in advance - 

”Yes, why not? I don't mean to be indelicate, but perhaps we should get the – formalities – out of the way.”

He caught a glint of contempt in Ruskin's eyes, then saw the man begin to fumble through his pocket.

”Here. Will that do for now? The rest when we're done for today.”

Rossetti studied the coin and decided he couldn't complain. This would at least buy him dinner tonight, with wine and everything. Perhaps even more materials for his painting.

”Thanks.”

”You may put your – belongings over there.”

Ruskin was pointing towards a chair standing in the corner. Rossetti was puzzled, then concluded Ruskin was referring to the canvas, but soon realized that Ruskin was expecting more. He looked down at himself and came to the conclusion that Ruskin meant that he was to pose in the nude? Like one of his own models. Of course. Perhaps that wasn't so surprising after all. The lines of the body appeared more clearly without the impediment to the eye that clothing would make. 

”Oh. Of course.”

Rather self-consciously, he removed his shirt, then his trousers, then finally, after some hesitation, also his undergarments. Despite having done away with the morals and customs of the past, he knew his face was heating up slightly. He wasn't used to appearing undressed, like this, in the company of anyone but a lover. 

Nervously, he began to straighten his hair, trying hard to focus on the opposite wall. 

Ruskin pointed to a spot where he wanted his model to stand, then took his place at the easel. He removed the used canvas and put it away without a second glance, as if it was a work abandoned, then placed another one in its place. Rossetti glanced enviously at the pile of materials gathered on a small side table. This man really could afford to buy anything he wanted.

For a few minutes, Ruskin commented and demanded new postures and poses, until finally, he appeared content and began to sketch. After a while, it began to get boring and Rossetti's mind started to wander. How could his models bear to stand still for hours on end? He was already getting tired of the exercise and wanted to be allowed to dress and go, with the money he had already earned. However, Ruskin didn't appear to show any signs of tiring of his work. 

Unknown to Rossetti, Ruskin's mind was also hard at work. In this case, he was considering the model and comparing it to the ones he had used in the past. All female. He couldn't help thinking that the female form compared negatively to this. It was – fascinating. The lines – perfect. When his gaze travelled further down Rossetti's body, he felt something he had never allowed himself to feel before. This time, the realisation washed over him all at once and though he did not like the implicacations, in the interests of artistic expression, he for once, let himself dwell on what he felt. That – part of Rossetti's crude, brutish anatomy attracted his gaze. He felt his entire body flooded with excitement. 

The session lasted well into the evening, but at the end of it, when Ruskin knew he had to call it a night, he had not managed to get many lines down on the canvas. No matter. He would get Rossetti to come back tomorrow and the day after – In fact, he now saw that it wasn't the sketching and painting that appealed to him, it was seeing – truly seeing – this body, as if for the first time. He knew that even when Rossetti was gone and he, Ruskin, was alone, his mind would linger on the details of that body, dwelling in intimate detail on it. 

That first time, Ruskin's mind was not disturbed by further insights. He happily dwelled on the memories and relived them in his mind's eye. 

It was only later, that he found that there was more to this than merely watching and relishing the sight. After a few sleepless nights, he resigned himself to his fate. Society might frown upon men such as he, but then again – had they not assumed much and judged him from his connection with his young protegee? What their minds had imagined was not even true. He found the childish form less offensive to his eyes than the fully grown female one, that was true, but he did not harbour any other intentions towards the child. She was just a phase he went through. This – he sensed that despite his advanced age, he had at last found his true yearnings. He would not allow society to make him turn away from this new insight.

The following day, he decided to try to convey his wishes to Rossetti. He did not concern himself with any potential negative reaction. Even if Rossetti refused him, there would be others. Should Rossetti react with distaste and loathing, who would believe the man if he chose to reveal Ruskin's secret? The man lacked credibility and their old – disagreements – would ensure that no one would believe him. However, judging by Rosetti's constant need for money – there was every possibility that he would eventually come to agree. A man like that lacked integrity. It was obvious, even from looking at him, that he was a base, primitive man. Indeed, he took pride in being such a man. Used it in his so called art.

When Rossetti walked in, Ruskin took him to his own bed chamber upstairs. It too, had large windows that let in the light in a way conducive to painting. He had even thought to place the easel up there and moved the painting materials up there as well. 

”Today I have decided we will use another room upstairs.”

Rossetti didn't appear to have any objection, until he recognized the room for what it was. 

”Your bed chamber, sir?”

Ruskin continued watching him, determinedly, and in the end, Rossetti shrugged and let the matter go. After removing his clothing, he took up a position over by the window, prepared to stand for the sketch or painting – he wasn't sure what Ruskin was trying to achieve. It seemed to him that the man rarely drew a line on the canvas anymore. Perhaps he chose to paint from memory later. It was always possible.

”I want you on the bed today.”

Rossetti looked up, startled. What was this? Still, it was possible the man had had a change of heart about the motif and would prefer another pose. 

”Very well.”

Rossetti stretched out on the bed, trying different poses, until he noticed that Ruskin wasn't paying attention. Not in the way he expected. The man was standing uncomfortably close to the bed, staring in an unnerving way, that seemed to Rossetti, bore no resemblance to an artist's – even a mediocre one at best – eye, and more to another type of watching that was intimately familiar to Rossetti in another context.

”What's going on? Aren't you going to paint me?”

Ruskin did not reply, instead continued gazing down at Rossetti's body in the same intense way. It was beginning to unnerve Rossetti, and he tried to sit up.

Ruskin put his hands on his shoulders and tried to push him down again.

”Let go of me. What are you trying to - ”

”I will pay you more. Double – no, treble the amount.”

It was true. The man wanted to – Rossetti's first reaction was disgust and anger. He continued his efforts to get up, but recalling his lack of funds and all his glorious artistic projects waiting for him, gave up. If only he could find a sponsor. And though this was not how he had imagined his sponsorship, this was undeniably one that could easily not only feed and clothe him but also finance his art for a long time to come. In fact, despite the despicable nature of the act he was going to be paid for – was it not in fact something that could be said to belong in their brotherhood? They were throwing off old conventions and embracing new – or – old – ones. It might be – personal preferences aside – educational for his art. In any case, Ruskin, the pervert, knew him far too well. It was no use. He would have to accept.

So he mentioned a sum that was far more than double what Ruskin had intitially offered, rather more like quadrupling it, and Ruskin didn't even bat an eyelid. He seemed far too pleased, even smug at getting his way. Rossetti recognized and resented the look of contempt that accompanied the smugness. The intolerable man felt this only confirmed his low view of the younger man. Knowing this and knowing that there was nothing he could do to object, Rossetti decided to let it go, or at least to drown his sorrows later on, in wine and in the arms of a woman. His beloved Lizzie – or - 

Ruskin nodded, then began to remove his own clothing. Rossetti looked away. Ruskin might find his own form appealing, but he in no way reciprocated the feeling. He was wondering how he was going to be able to repress his feelings of revulsion, but the thought of the money and the wine and the women helped to some extent. 

Now he felt the bed springs being repressed by the weight of a body pressing down on them. He still refused to face Ruskin, but allowed the man access to his body, forcing his mind away from what was going on, instead focusing on his art, women, wine – Anything that might help. Those hands began to move down his body, touching him intimately in ways only women had up until now. At first, he was tense and knew that he might be disappointing Ruskin, but as long as he got paid, that did not bother him in the least. 

Eventually, to his disgust, he found that even this – repulsive as it was – could make his own body betray him and after that, he sensed that Ruskin was happier about the arrangement. As time went by, the insufferable man made greater and greater demands, and Rossetti – had no choice but to comply. In time, he even learned to derive a tiny amount of pleasure from the interaction, but that was something he refused to dwell on afterwards.

Lizzie began to notice his – inattention to her and interpreted it differently, which was a relief. She believed he was having an affair. With another woman. He found himself unable to protest too vehemently, lest she suspect the truth. 

His friends wondered at his sour expression and could not understand it. 

”Why are you not more happy about your good fortune? Are you too proud to pose as a model, when you, yourself are using models for your work?”

”No, it's – different – but – why should I grudge the man his opportunity to part with his money – even for his amateurish efforts? His lack of talent isn't my problem, is it? It's just – boring. Standing there for hours on end. Sometimes I get cold. Hungry. Thirsty. I don't see how the women stand it. They must by nature be more patient than we are.”

”Do you see anything of the child?”

”No, never. There was a sketch of her, poorly executed of course, but he put that aside and discontinued work on it. I believe he has tired of her.”

The others nodded. Some of them must still believe Ruskin to be the sort of pervert that craved the company of children. If only they knew that he was quite a different sort of pervert. Rossetti fervently hoped that no one ever would know. If anyone did – they could not fail to include him in the judgment. He often experienced intense attacks of remorse and shame. At other times, he defiantly shook such bourgeois values off and thought that he, as an artist, stood above society's rules. If he chose to experience this – surely he should not let the opinions of petty minds degrade him. He was Rossetti, he did what he chose. Or at least – what he was paid for. And the surly expression remained on his face. 

FIN


End file.
